Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 81947 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 410(@200wpm)___ 328(@250wpm)___ 273(@300wpm)
Still shirtless.
Damn, he was hot.
Crossing my arms over my middle, refusing to acknowledge his kindness, I ground out through clenched teeth, “I can do that.”
He set the mop aside and reached for his thermal shirt. Drawing it over his head, he pushed it down over his chest as he said, “Is that what you’re wearing to the airport?”
I blinked. “What airport? What are you talking about?”
He crossed to the kitchen counter with his discarded duffel bag. Unzipping it, he pulled the sides open and tilted it so I could see the contents. There were stacks of crisp bills. All hundreds.
Zippering up the duffel, he said, “There is ten thousand in cash in there. That should tide you over until I can send for you. There will be a million more euros in it for you later.”
Send for me?
And yeah, right about the million euros.
As a former bartender, I knew never to trust a guy who promised to tip later at the end of the night.
Later never seemed to come for men like that, especially not after they got what they wanted.
He tore a piece of notepaper off my magnet notepad on the refrigerator. Snatching the pen next to it, he scribbled on the paper, folded it in half, and handed it to me. “If you get into trouble before then, call this number and ask for me.”
I unfolded the paper and looked down.
In harsh, masculine scrawl there was a Chicago phone number and under it was the name Varlaam Romanovich Rubashkin.
Could his name sound more scarily Russian?
I folded the paper and handed it back to him. “Thanks, but I won’t be needing this. Or your money because I’m not leaving.”
I mean, if he insisted, I would still take the money, but my pride dictated I at least pretend to refuse it.
He brushed past me to waltz into my bedroom. “Good. I see you are already packed.”
Closing the suitcase, he leaned to the side to zipper it up.
“Hey! Don’t touch my suitcase! I don’t want to leave.”
Sure, I’d been desperately trying to leave town less than an hour earlier, but that was on my terms. And strictly speaking, I hadn’t wanted to leave. I was being forced to for my own safety.
Since the monster chasing me had literally showed up on my doorstep and then fucked me into oblivion, I figured it would be safe to unpack now and go on with my life.
Ignoring my hands, he finished zippering it, pulled the heavy case off my bed, and marched back into the main area, depositing it by the door. “I didn’t ask what you wanted to do.”
Once more, I crossed my arms over my chest as I tapped my foot. “Yeah. I noticed you’re not so great about asking first.”
He gave my cheek a pinch. “You’re adorable when you’re mad. What do you want in this other suitcase?”
“Not to go back to a touchy subject, but what happened to you coming here to kill me?”
I was getting whiplash from all the changes to my situation.
“I told you. I wasn’t here to kill you, and I didn’t kill the bastard, but an unhinged Southside gang did. It’s only a matter of time before they learn about you. You’re in danger. You’ll be safer out of the country for a few weeks.”
My lips thinned. “And fucking me?”
His head tilted as he stared at me. “That was just a farewell bonus.”
“You’re a bastard.”
“So you’ve told me. If you’re not going to change, we really need to get going. Your flight leaves soon. Where is your passport?”
Despite my strenuous objections, I somehow found myself sitting in the passenger seat of his car, parked outside the international terminal at O’Hare airport.
They were so skittish about bombs that usually a person couldn’t so much as pause here without a police officer coming up and threatening federal prison. But one after another they approached the car and the moment they caught sight of Varlaam, they tipped their hat and moved on.
Who the hell was this Russian?
He handed me a printout of my ticket.
First class to Italy.
At least he wasn’t cheap.
He leaned his arm along the backseat of the car. “I’ll come and find you in a few weeks. In the meantime, find yourself a nice hotel and lie low. If you have any issues, in the duffel bag there is the contact information for Benedict Cavalieri on another piece of paper. He’ll be able to help until I get there.”
I stared at the ticket printout. Without looking up, I asked, “Find me? Why would you want to do that?”
He grasped my chin and forced me to look at him. “Because I’m not done with you.”
“What if I don’t want to be found?”
His thumb stroked my bottom lip. “I’ll find you anyway and convince you otherwise.”
He’d taken my cellphone and told me my bank accounts and credit cards had been closed to avoid anyone tracking me. I couldn’t see how he’d find me, even if he wasn’t lying and wanted to.